


people on the edge of the night

by Biggus Slickus (crownlessliestheking)



Series: at the end of the day [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Established Relationship, Humanstuck, M/M, Mild Domesticity, Multi, Music, One (1) Rainbow Dash Onesie, POV Second Person, Polyamory, Pre-Relationship, Prelude to Discussions of Polyamory, Sartorial choices, Suits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:15:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25120744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crownlessliestheking/pseuds/Biggus%20Slickus
Summary: You can pick out a suit and shit for me to wear, Strider says, and I’ll wear it. You’re not sure this is part of any deal. You tell him he’d basically already agreed. Yeah, he says, but I’m only gonna do it if you pick one out for this asshole. He points at the boss, like there's a fourth asshole in the room it could be.Oh, you say. You should be more eloquent.No hats, he says. He’s not part of the Crew, he says. Wouldn’t be right to wear the hat.Yeah, you agree, and you don’t say that you think he would be if he wanted to wear the hat, because you know it ain’t about the hat at all. Instead, you say you’ll introduce ‘em both to your tailor. You tell the boss he’s gotta behave. Slick says fuck you he always behaves, and you think you and Strider nearly roll your eyes at the exact same moment, because he says fuck both of you, he does behave, but the tailor better not put any needles in anywhere else there’ll be a knife in somewhere in return.
Relationships: Diamonds Droog/Spades Slick, Dirk Strider & Diamonds Droog, Dirk Strider/Spades Slick
Series: at the end of the day [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1821157
Comments: 8
Kudos: 14





	people on the edge of the night

**Author's Note:**

> Partially inspired by an RP. Partially inspired by my need to stop staring at Microsoft Word. Partially inspired by my desire to try out that Intermission Style of writing (but not really because I don't think I Quite Got That Right) because I haven't before and I want to bang out a quick fic. 
> 
> (Srsly, this is my first time writing any of the MC, so. Fingers crossed.)

Rain patters against the distant roof, quiet percussion that you’re happy to be out of. The smell of damp asphalt was damn near suffocating as you walked here, let yourself in with the water sliding off your hat. Your hair's spared, and you're glad you splurged for the waterproofing, because there's no need to let any kinda wet ruin a perfectly good hat. And with your job, rain's the least kinda wet that you need to worry about.

The boss's house ain't empty, and it ain't quiet, either. 

Rarely is, these days. 

Used to be you didn't know what to think about that. Now, you don’t mind it so much. Not least ‘cause you know you’re invited. He’s never said it, fuck if Spades Slick has ever outright said anything to make your life any easier, but you know it all the same.

You get your shoes off at the threshold, and line them up nice and neat with the pair of boots that’re already there. From last night, you figure. Boss’s shoes’re there too, but not as neat. You ignore the urge to fix ‘em- you’re not on the clock right now, and it’s his damn house anyway and if his nightmare dog’s gonna go for any shoes you’d prefer they weren’t yours.

You hang your hat and coat up, too, before making your way over to where the sound of the piano’s jolting through the house. You resist the urge to light up a smoke on the way- you’ll wait to go out for it. When it stops raining, maybe. You don’t check the weather forecast, you don’t know when that is, and the boss’s porch awning is still more bullet-hole than fabric, so you’re better off standing in the rain if you go outside.

The door to the piano room’s open, but you don’t enter yet. Just take a moment to look at the occupants. One familiar, ‘cause you’ve known him for all your damn life, further back than either of you can remember and you’ll know him for the rest of your damn life one way or another. One less familiar, but here nonetheless. It’s a good thing you ain’t the type of man to tie yourself in knots over questions you don’t get answered, because he just showed up and kept showing up and the boss never bothered explaining so you didn’t ask since you’re not fuckin’ rude. Even if you wanted to know then and want to know now what the whole draw is. He ain’t ever there when you spend the night, just like you ain’t when he does, but he’s sometimes there in the morning, or in the evening until you get there, sprawled out on the couch with a thermos fulla coffee so strong you could smell it from a mile away.

(Some days, you think you’re closer to getting it than others, but you don’t say that either. You ain’t the type of man to go ruining a good thing, ‘specially not when shit’s precarious at best. That other guy, though? He’s the type, though he’s never said anything and so you haven’t thanked him for it either.)

Slick’s at the piano, back straight and fingers jabbing at the keys like they’re knives and the piano’s some poor fucker who pissed him off. His scowl’s not at downright furious so he’s pretty serene, you think, and you stop to enjoy the sight for a moment. You’re not the kinda person who goes around objectifying folks- your job’s to size ‘em up, figure when they’ll bend and where they’ll break, but you’ll admit to yourself that his scrawny ass does it for you. Messy ink-black hair, teeth gritted as he plays. You know his two front teeth are slightly crooked. His good eye’s to the door; you know he moved the piano ‘round when it happened so it’d be that way. Your eyes linger ‘cause he ain’t watching and a man’s allowed to appreciate what’s in front of him sometimes, before they shift to the other guy in the room.

Strider's sitting on the floor in what's now his usual spot, in that he's put a cushion there so as his ass ain't sore from the hardwood floors and the boss hasn't moved it away.

(You kinda suspect that the boss has gone and moved it _back_ after his demon dog's dragged it away, but a man's gotta have his own secrets, and you're not gonna help anyone puzzle out Spades Slick more than they already have. 'Sides. There's a chair for you now there too, and you don't know which of these assholes put it there, but damn right you're not sitting on the floor and wrinkling your suit.)

He’s got his nose in a book, which ain’t fully unusual. You ignore the fuckin’ atrocity he’s wearing, and how fuckin’ soft he looks in it. He’s got no right, you want to say. He’s a trumped up prettyboy, tall and freckled if you get in close enough to look. He’s the polar fuckin’ opposite of the boss, if you’re being honest- broader in the shoulders, a foot on him, light hair and dark shades and a bad goddamn habit of lookin’ entirely calm instead of pissed at the world. If you were a man who appreciated that kinda contrast, you’d be pretty damn fascinated here. As is, you just appreciate what’s in front of you and you keep your mouth shut about it.

Two faces look up at you as you walk in. Silver eyes narrow right at you, and shaded ones just regard you for a moment. Slick doesn't stop playing, but he’s not sneering that hard, so you figure he’s as close to happy to see you as he’s gonna get. Least openly so, anyway. You don’t mind, you know how the boss is by now. He’s been a constant in your life far back as you can remember. Ain’t no Diamonds Droog without Spades Slick. And you know he ain’t ever gonna admit it, but there ain’t no Spades Slick without Diamonds Droog, either. You’re fine that he doesn’t say it, ‘cause you _know_ , and that’s the important thing. Some shit doesn’t need to be said out loud.

Strider's finger holds his place in whatever book he's reading now. You 'n Slick both have stopped asking him about that 'cause damn does he get chatty about it sometimes and for folks who just ain't interested in books like that, shit is incompre-fucking-hensible. Doesn't stop him from reading out loud sometimes. He’s always real soft-spoken, for all the bullshit that comes outta his mouth. Doesn't stop either of you from listening to him talk to his aunt about some of 'em, even if half of what he says is still incompre-fucking-hensible and makes your head spin and Slick cuss so much about nerdy fuckin’ know-it-alls that he can't even hear shit over it. 

You settle into the chair- your chair, thank you very fuckin’ much-, and just keep watching them. Slick’s eyes flick towards the case leaning in the corner, your sax in it, and you shake your head. Been a long day, you say. Don’t much feel like playing, you say. You’re getting the chair wet, he says back. Drippin’ on my fuckin’ floors. Like he’s not still wearing shoes inside. Like he hasn’t tracked mud and shit and blood all over the place before. Floors have seen worse, you tell him.

Floors have seen Bec’s bare ass, Strider says, turning back to his book. That’s kind of funny, but you won’t tell him. The boss hisses at him, but he’s gotten better at toeing the line, you gotta admit. Used to be you didn’t know what to think about that.

Floors have seen _your_ bare ass, he spits back. There ain’t much of a reaction to that, beyond a nod. True enough, he says, and you eye the floors somewhat warily. Floors have seen worse than ass, you want to say, but don’t. Instead, you tell Slick it’s raining now, and he says he knows. You tell him it’s gonna smell like wet dog in here when he takes Bec out. He says he knows, sneering harder. You used to figure he practices this shit in the mirror, now you still think it, even if you don’t see it. You say that it just smells wet outside now, and turn to Strider with the question half-asked.

Petrichor, he says. Smell of rain hitting the ground. Usually after a long dry spell. From petra-for rock, and ichor, the blood of the gods. ‘S Greek, he adds.

Nerd, the boss says. Why the fuck d’you know all this useless shit. You second that opinion, but you have to admit it’s useful to have someone who’ll have answers. Or at least look ‘em up. The nerd part comes in with the fuckin’ linguistics lesson, you tell him, when he says that it’s normal shit to know. It’s etymology, technically, he says, and Slick’s fingers slam down on the piano keys in a harsh, jarring note. What’s the -ology of where I stab you for that nerd shit, he asks, like he’ll draw a knife right now. Studying wounds makes you a doctor or a mortician, Strider says, smooth as anything. You think he’s amused. You still can’t tell that great, not that you’re gonna say it bothers you. You’ll get there. He ain’t as cool as he thinks. He’s wearing a goddamn blue horse onesie. He’s a grown fucking man. That does bother you. You ask him what the fuck he’s wearing and cut the boss off before he can work himself up to something with the word ‘stabology’ in it and get told it ain’t a real word, and then you’re gonna have to break up a real fight probably, which you don’t have the patience for.

Strider just looks at you through those fucking shades and says it’s comfortable, like comfort is worth this. You’re a member of the Midnight Crew. You’re a fuckin’ career criminal if there ever was one. You tell him this. He waits for the kicker, ‘cause he knows it’s coming and he knows he’ll find it hilarious, and he knows you know he’s waiting to let you finish. You’re alright with that. Better than not gettin’ a word in edgewise. You know crime, you say, and this is a crime against clothes and humanity and what the fuck is wrong with him that he paid money for it.

It was a gift, actually, he says, and you know he’s doing it to wind you up. You also know his weird-ass friends would buy this. You also know his weirder-ass brother would do it. But probably uglier, so it ain’t him. He doesn’t have to go anywhere today, he says. Why not be comfortable. Why bother dressing up.

You don’t have an answer for that one, so you just sneer at him. It ain’t as good as the boss’s, but you figure it’s close enough. He just shakes his head. Sometimes, you want to punch his teeth in, and you tell him that. The boss turns to narrow his eyes at you and says that he’s the only one who’s gonna punch those teeth in. But that pony shit is an eyesore so he probably wouldn’t stop you, just punch your teeth in afterwards.

Fine, then, Strider says, in the way that makes Slick turn and scowl deeper at him. He’s gonna give himself fuckin’ wrinkles before his time with that shit. You know for a fact those frown lines are deeper these days than they were before. You don’t voice this, ‘cause you’re not Strider and you don’t push the boss’s buttons too hard. Usually. Concession’s always a prelude to a jab. You don’t know if you appreciate that. You ain’t the type for verbal spars and arguments the way the boss is. But he doesn’t direct that shit at you as much, so you figure he knows.

What do you think I should wear to sit around the house, Strider asks, except it’s a statement and he’s waiting for some kind of answer, since there’s a smug note in his voice now.

Nothing, Slick says. A gag, Slick says. Sometimes the boss jumps for the easy bait. Kinky, Strider says, deadpan. The boss hisses out a curse, mumbles something under his breath. You don’t think too hard about what. You don’t think Strider’d let anyone gag him. You do think he’d walk around naked if it weren’t for Bec. If the boss asked. You don’t know if the boss’d ask. You decide to stop thinking about this shit, because you have a question to answer and you suspect you know the one he’s looking for.

Something nicer, is what you settle on telling him. You don’t need to make this easy. You don’t really want to.

A suit, he asks, because he can’t leave well enough alone and he’s needling you too. Slick’s looking on with what you know is vague interest and what you don’t think Strider knows is vague interest. You can’t blame him. Only reason you know it is ‘cause you know him so well. It’s only two ticks off his usual pissed-off look. Resting bitch-face, Strider sometimes calls it. Ain’t nothing resting about the boss, you think, but it’s a good a name for it as any.

You’re trying not to think too hard about why Slick’s looking at you that way or what it means. Mostly ‘cause you don’t think he knows what it fuckin’ means and is probably waiting for you to tell him so he can say no fuck you that’s wrong.

Yeah, you say. Why not a suit. Suits’re nice.

They are nice, he agrees. His brother wears a lot of them. Strider’s even got a couple himself. Most of the fancy ones are at his bro’s place, he says, but he’s got two here for formal shit.

Somehow, it’s more suspicious that he doesn’t push back on this. Thing about guys like Strider is that they’re always thinkin’ about something, plotting something. You know it ain’t against you- the boss wouldn’t tolerate it if it was. You know it ain’t anything nefarious when it’s to do with you. You know it ain’t anything nefarious to do with the boss- you wouldn’t tolerate it if it was. You know it ain’t anything to do with Clubs, because he and Strider somehow get along ‘cause Clubs knows what the fuck he’s talking about with those ‘memes’ and they’re speaking another fuckin’ language half the time. Could be something to do with Boxcars, you’ll allow, ‘cause you don’t want to get in the middle of that shit and they eye each other like the boss does before he knifes another picture of Snowman, but they haven’t gotten into it in a long-ass time.

(Sometimes, you forget that he’s dangerous in his own way. That’s the most dangerous of all, you think. The quiet ones. The ones you forget about. Kinda like Clubs, except anyone with a fist fulla explosives is dangerous however fulla empty their head is. More like you, except he doesn’t do menacing the way you do. And you know ain’t nobody you’ve introduced yourself to forgets who you are. The boss doesn’t see him as a threat. But you know there ain’t many guys who’ll take Hearts down in a fight. But you also know there ain’t many guys who’ll say sorry afterwards and let it lie as best they can.)

Which circles back around to it having something to do with you. The suit thing didn’t leave it many other options.

You knew what Strider’s brother looked like in a suit, before you’d seen Strider himself in one. You knew that he wore ‘em well, that Strider probably would too, but that it’d be the ugliest damn suit around. Simple math. You just assumed Strider never wore ‘em, ‘cause you’d never seen him in one, and as far as you could tell, all he wore were jeans and high-necked tanktops that fit like a glove. A tight glove, mind. Just like how you know Slick’d look good in a real suit, except he never wears ‘em either, just a blazer and a shirt and dark pants and ain’t that fuckin’ close enough Droog so shut the fuck up.

You still haven’t seen the boss in a suit, and that’s probably for the best. You’ve seen Strider in one, and short of that one older fella a couple years back, you haven’t seen one that fit so well. Again. Like a fuckin’ glove. The brat the boss’d been talkin’ to, who’s been inside his house, who you’d known he was maybe sleeping with, got a dinner invite and showed up in a fuckin’ three piece suit in oilslick black that fit like a glove, like there was nothing to it. You ain’t the type to have wandering eyes, not really. But you’ve got a good appreciation for good clothes. And that was good clothes. You didn’t say that at dinner. You didn’t say it afterwards, not to Strider, anyway. Not even to the boss.

But Slick did his hissy goddamn laugh in your face after that dinner once it was just the two of you and everyone else had left, and you'd told him cool as anything that you're just appreciating a well-made suit and that had Strider ever thought about wearing a hat like yours? And then because sometimes you gotta needle the boss back, you'd asked how he thought he'd look with that light hair dyed black- midnight black like the rest of you-, and he'd gone quiet for a second like you'd thought he would until he said back that it'd probably bring out his eyes more, and you were left off-kilter wondering when the _fuck_ the boss had ever seen Dirk goddamn Strider's eyes behind those triangle specs. They didn't even come off when he'd beat the shit outta Boxcars some six months back (and yeah, you'd had to intervene there and he'd apologized the next time he saw you, but you have to admire the ability to keep accessories firmly on.) And you’d known you’d lost that exchange but you weren’t gonna admit it so you’d just said that was a real sappy thing to say, are you going soft, and he’d shoved you hard enough to bruise the next day and you didn’t think too hard about it afterwards, just pressed your fingers into the purple spots until they faded.

Slick’s still looking at you now in the present, and you’re not gonna lie and say you don’t like it. His attention’s something you like having. Slick’s intense. You look back at him, and he holds your gaze some. What’s interesting is that Strider’s looking at you, too.

What, you say, to the room at large. It comes out sharper than you mean. Slick’s finger jabs down on a key, discordant. Nothing, Strider says. Just thinking about where to get a suit, he says.

He’s already got a suit, you say. Can’t wear the same suit in front of you twice, he says back. Well he can, he says, but maybe not that one for just sitting around in. His bro’s got suit pajamas, he says. Like Barney from How I Met Your Mother. Would those do, he asks. He’s winding you up again. He thinks he has your number, and you don’t think he’s got ‘em all jotted down, but there’s more than you might like for sure.

Slick asks what the fuck is How I Met Your Mother and what the purple fucking dinosaur has to do with it. Why is the dinosaur fucking someone’s mother, he asks, apparently dead fucking serious, because he says this is why modern TV sucks ass. Strider wants to know why he knows Barney as the purple dinosaur to begin with, which you figure is a good question because you didn’t know Slick knew that either. What the fuck else would Barney be, he hisses out, why the fuck would there be more than one. Vantas showed him something on that one place online.

You still don’t think this answers your question, but the Vantas kid is weird enough that you accept this as an explanation.

You intercept whatever the fuck Strider is about to say about Slick being old as fuck (he ain’t, but you gotta admit your boss ain’t modern when it comes to the Internet and using it beyond the job. Neither are you, but you’ve got better shit to do), to tell him that no, suit pajamas are fuckin’ stupid and it better be a real suit or else.

You don’t really mean to tack on the or else to that. Slick and Strider are both watching you harder now. It’s a good thing you’ve been on the receiving end of the boss’s most scathing glares. This is nothing.

(This gets under your skin in a different kinda way.)

What color, Strider asks. You don’t hold with prints on suits, you tell him. You barely hold with prints on ties. You know he doesn’t like that. He tells you he likes prints anyway.

Black suit, Slick interrupts. Fuckin’ obviously.

Pinstripe tie. Grey and black, you say.

No hat, Strider says. He doesn’t wear hats. You tell him you know. Slick tells him to stop being so precious about his fuckin’ hair, it’s just hair, one brush and it’ll be fine. You tune out the hair-related argument, but you’re on the boss’s side on this one. Not that you ain’t always on his side, but you do always have his back. But he’s right sometimes about shit, and this is one of ‘em.

(You’ve seen Strider with his hair messy all of three times, and two of ‘em were when Slick was there, and you kinda think that if it was up to you, he’d quit styling it the way he does. You think that if it was up to Slick, he’d quit doing it too. You think that if it were up to anyone but Strider himself, he’d quit with the fuckin’ gel.)

Deal, Slick says, sharpish, and it jolts you out of your thoughts. He’s extending a hand Strider’s way like it’s the worst fuckin’ thing he’s had to do. You have no idea what the deal is, but they’re shaking on it anyway. Deal, Strider echoes.

Deal, you ask, and get an impatient look from Slick. You get the feeling you’ve missed a trick. It ain’t one you have often, and it ain’t one you like all that much.

Yeah, Slick says, and the word ‘idiot’ hangs in the air even though he doesn’t snarl it out. Idiot. Right, there it is.

You can pick out a suit and shit for me to wear, Strider says, and I’ll wear it. You’re not sure this is part of any deal. You tell him he’d basically already agreed. Yeah, he says, but I’m only gonna do it if you pick one out for this asshole. He points at the boss, like there's a fourth asshole in the room it could be.

Oh, you say. You should be more eloquent.

No hats, he says. He’s not part of the Crew, he says. Wouldn’t be right to wear the hat.

Yeah, you agree, and you don’t say that you think he would be if he wanted to wear the hat, because you know it ain’t about the hat at all. Instead, you say you’ll introduce ‘em both to your tailor. You tell the boss he’s gotta behave. Slick says fuck you he always behaves, and you think you and Strider nearly roll your eyes at the exact same moment, because he says fuck both of you, he does behave, but the tailor better not put any needles in anywhere else there’ll be a knife in somewhere in return.

Strider just says he’ll make sure your tailor makes it out unscathed. Good tailors are hard to find, he says. His aunt’s wife is one, he says. She keeps threatening to burn his knee-high Converse.

They should burn, you tell him.

Maybe if your tailor has decent replacements he’ll think about it, he says. It’s better than spats on sneakers, he says, with a strange twist to his mouth.

You tell him why the fuck did he go and bring up spats on sneakers because what kind of sick fuck would wear those.

The sickest, the boss says, and there’s a lotta something angry twisted up in his voice too, so you figure you’ll be on the lookout for any freak who wears ‘em and you’ll know you’re justified in introducing them to the wrong end of your cuestick. You tell them this, and Slick’s a huffy bastard so he just snarls something under his breath and then turns to look over his shoulder at Strider. You wonder what that’s about. You don’t ask.

Thanks, Strider says, and you think there might be something genuine in that but he doesn’t say anything else.

You want to ask what it’s about. You don’t ask.

It’s taken care of anyway, he says, and he’s looking at Slick like he’s reminding the boss of that but you’re pretty sure it’s aimed at you, and that it’s something like reassurance.

You don’t know that you trust Strider, beyond the fact that the boss does even if he won’t admit it ‘cause he’s a stubborn asshole, but that’s alright ‘cause you don’t know that he trusts you beyond the fact that Slick does. Hell, you don’t know all of what he thinks of you at all, except it’s probably not what you expect and that he probably knows more than you’d like. Just ‘cause Slick tells him things and you know some of those things are bound to be about you, since you’re a part of his life and all. A big one, not to put too fine a point on it. You don’t know what it says that Slick trusts you two with each other, and it’s something you try to think around rather than about. Don’t gotta complicate things more than they are, you figure. That’s the boss’s job, to make the mess. Yours is to clean it up. Except it ain’t just your job anymore, and you think you’re probably supposed to hate that a lot more but mostly you appreciate having someone else who’ll deal with Slick when he’s in one of his moods.

(You’re not sure if it’s ‘cause you’ve always had to share him, or if it’s ‘cause there’s a decent chance Strider went and stuck his nose in where it didn’t belong and needled the boss about you enough that you’re where you are now, but you’re not gonna complain. He’s a sight better than Snowman, but the bar there is real fucking low. He’s not as easy on the eyes though that ain't saying much with the way she looks, but he’s easier on the nerves, and fuck it, you’ve got used to him being around the two of you, haven’t you.)

On a entirely practical level it’s also good to have someone who’s a half-decent tailor of the other kind. He’s no Stitch, but none of you are any good at sewing up skin and you sure as hell ain’t neat about it, and Clubs might do alright if he didn’t get distracted so easy ‘cause he’s the one of you who gets hurt the least, but he does get distracted so easy. You don’t know where Strider learned any of that or why he’s shittier at bullet wounds than blade cuts but he’s neat and ain’t afraid of blood, and he says he’s not part of the Crew and Slick doesn’t treat him like one so you don’t either but what that boils down to is that you can’t just ask shit. He’s helped stitch you back up, but you ain’t entitled enough to consider it like you gotta know what this shit is about in return even if you want to press it. Can’t even give him the shovel talk ‘cause the boss still won’t tell anyone what the deal is. That, you don’t like. No real idea of what privacy is, either of ‘em, but they’re cagey bastards themselves.

If it’s taken care of it’s taken care of but you can tell the boss ain’t happy with how it’s taken care of, so you figure you’ll keep that eye out anyway. You only say that last part, about keeping an eye out. Paranoid motherfucker, Slick says, like he’s not a thousand times worse. Not about Strider, or about you, but in general.

Chill, bro, Strider says, like he’s not equally fucking guilty. You’ve seen him when someone somehow manages to catch him by surprise- usually Clubs, since he’s the only one of you that’s real good at sneaking and is also a solid fifteen inches below Strider’s sightline. The only thing to be said is that he ain’t as loud and shitty about it as the boss can be, just gets more careful next time. But it’s Deuce. Careful’s got nothing to do with it.

Careful or I’ll put you in a fuckin’ clown suit you tell them both.

Don’t you fuckin’ dare else I won’t be the asshole missing limbs, Slick says, and he glares at you immediately like you’d expected. Your eyes linger on his metal fingers. You don’t always like looking at them ‘cause you figure it’s something you shoulda done more to stop, but ain’t no one stopping Snowman, and you know Slick doesn’t want to think too hard about it. You think Strider’s gonna make him. You think it’s gonna go bad. You know you’re gonna need to be there when it does.

I’ve worn worse, Strider says mildly, because of course he has. And besides, he says, you wouldn’t do that to Spades. He doesn’t always call the boss by name, you’ve noticed. Not that Spades is his real name, sure, but it’s usually bro or man or Slick. You think he knows the boss’s real name, though. Just a feeling. He doesn’t know yours; you know Slick wouldn’t tell him, and you haven’t decided if you’re going to yet.

Slick turns on him now, and so do you, because he just fucking says this shit sometimes and you wish he’d make up his mind about being evasive or being blunt. The boss looks harrowed, which means that he wishes that too.

What, he says. Smug. You want to wipe that off his face. You kind of think he’s being deliberate about it. You tell him to shut up, and he tells you to make him, and you shouldn’t be thinking about ways you could do that so you don’t at all, just stare him down.

You sometimes forget how he doesn’t back down easy. Either that or he’s real used to staring folks down, but he ain’t got nothing on you. There’s no undercurrent of aggression like when he and Boxcars glare at each other, but you still don’t know what he’s thinking. The only reassurance is that you’re pretty damn sure he doesn’t know what you’re thinking either. Make me could mean a lotta things, you say. He says he knows. You can kinda guess at what he’s getting at and it ain’t the business end of a cuestick or a gun or a knife, but that’s. Huh. That’s something to think about later. He and the boss have an understanding, and you and the boss have an understanding, and the two don’t cross so you didn’t think too hard about it. You’re not the kinda guy to go trying to ruin a good thing and saying shit that doesn’t need saying.

He is, though. You don’t know what to think about that, as he holds your gaze for a little longer, even.

Stop fuckin’ staring at each other and unzip and measure, Slick says, breaking the silence as his fingers slam down on the keys again. You both wince at the noise.

Nah, you say. Don’t need t’do any of that, you say.

Then get up here, it’s your turn, the boss says to Strider, imperious as ever. Ain’t even a question about listening, is the thing with Slick. You get caught up in what he’s doing and what he wants no matter how hard you try otherwise. He’s got a real black and white view of it- either with him, or gonna be introduced to the business end of a knife ‘cause you’re against him or in the way. Not that they’re mutually exclusive. You know he’d off you if he needed to. You know you’d put up a fight. You wonder if Strider knows he’s in the same goddamn boat. If that’s why he’s as uninvolved as an involved person could be. You don’t say any of this- ain’t your business if he doesn’t.

The guy heaves out a sigh, but he perches himself on the piano bench anyway, page marked with an entire bookmark you may or may not have left lying around ‘cause you’re sick of seeing bills and wire(?) and even once a knife instead of the literal fuckin’ object made to mark a place in a book.

You watch his hands as he starts playing, a softer melody than what you and the boss favor, sadder too, and imagine those long fingers curled around a knife.

**Author's Note:**

> Note on ages- there's not a huge gap between them, Droog's the oldest at 30, Dirk's the youngest at 25, Slick's sitting at 26 but you wouldn't guess it.
> 
> Another note- Dirk introduces CD to JoJo, and the piss-in-a-cup bit from Part 5. He and everyone else regret it so much.


End file.
